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POEMS 

BY  ARTHUR   MACY 


With  an  Introduction  by 
WILLIAM  ALFRED  HO^ET 


W.  B.  CLARKE  CO. 

BOSTON 

1905 


COPYRIGHT   1905   BY   MARY  T.   MACY 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 


A      v  *• :  *  *  *  i 

'•*      »  v  J  :/•  •  * 


THE  Editors  of  The  Youth's  Companion,  St.  Nicholas •,  and 
The  Smart  Set,  The  H.  B.  Stevens  Company,  The  Oliver 
Ditson  Company,  and  Messrs.  G.  Schirmer  &  Company,  have 
kindly  permitted  the  republication  of  several  poems  in  this 
collection. 


334250 


INTRODUCTION 


A, 


ARTHUR  MACY  was  a  Nantucket  boy  of  Quaker  ex 
traction.  His  name  alone  is  evidence  of  this,  for  it  is  safe 
to  say  that  a  Macy,  wherever  found  in  the  United  States, 
is  descended  from  that  sturdy  old  Quaker  who  was  one  of 
those  who  bought  Nantucket  from  the  Indians,  paid  them 
fairly  for  it,  treated  them  with  justice,  and  lived  on  friendly 
terms  with  them.  In  many  ways  Arthur  Macy  showed  that 
he  was  a  Nantucketer  and,  at  least  by  descent,  a  Quaker. 
He  often  used  phrases  peculiar  to  our  island  in  the  sea, 
and  was  given,  in  conversation  at  least,  to  similes  which 
smacked  of  salt  water.  Almost  the  last  time  I  saw  him 
he  said,  "  I  'm  coming  round  soon  for  a  good  long  gam." 
He  was  a  many-sided  man.  In  his  intercourse  with  a 
friend  like  myself  he  would  show  the  side  which  he  thought 
would  interest  me,  and  that  only.  He  was  above  all  things 
cheery,  and,  to  his  praise  be  it  said,  he  hated  a  bore.  I 
remember  that  a  mutual  friend  was  talking  baseball  to 
me  by  the  yard.  Arthur  was  sitting  by,  listening.  It  was 
a  subject  in  which  he  was  much  interested.  Nevertheless, 

[v] 


turning  to  our  mutual  friend,  he  said,  "  Don't  talk  base 
ball  to  him.  He  don't  care  anything  about  it,  he  don't 
know  anything  about  it,  and  he  don't  want  to."  On  the 
other  hand,  although  little  given  to  telling  of  his  war  ex 
periences,  he  was  always  ready  to  talk  over  the  old  days 
with  me.  Of  what  he  did  himself,  he  modestly  said  but 
little,  but  of  the  services  of  others,  more  especially  of  the 
men  in  the  ranks,  he  was  generous  in  his  praise. 

Early  in  the  war  Macy  enlisted  in  Company  B,  24th 
Michigan  Volunteer  Infantry.  He  was  twice  wounded 
on  the  first  day  at  Gettysburg,  and  managed  to  crawl  into 
the  town  and  get  as  far  as  the  steps  of  the  Court  House, 
which  was  fast  filling  with  wounded  from  both  sides.  His 
sense  of  humor  was  in  evidence  even  at  such  a  time.  A 
Confederate  officer  rode  up  and  asked,  "  Have  those  men 
in  there  got  arms  ?  "  Quick  as  a  flash  Macy  answered  : 
"  Some  of  them  have  and  some  of  them  haven't."  He 
remained  in  this  Court-House  hospital,  a  prisoner  within 
the  Confederate  lines,  until  the  battle  was  over  and  Lee's 
army  retreated.  All  wounded  prisoners  who  could  walk 
were  forced  to  go  with  them,  but  Macy's  wound  was  in 
the  foot,  and,  fortunately  for  him,  he  was  spared  the  hor 
rors  of  a  Southern  prison. 

[vi] 


He  was  on  duty  later  at  the  Naval  Academy  Hospi 
tal  in  Annapolis,  presided  over  by  Dr.  Vanderkieft,  per 
haps  as  efficient  a  general  hospital  administrator  as  the 
army  had.  I  knew  Dr.  Vanderkieft  very  well,  and  was 
on  duty  at  his  hospital  when  the  exchanged  prisoners 
came  back  from  Andersonville.  Although  Macy  and 
I  never  met  there,  it  came  out  in  our  talk  that  we  were 
there  at  the  same  time.  He  served  his  full  three  years, 
and  was  honorably  discharged  about  the  close  of  the 
war. 

It  is  given  to  but  few  to  have  the  keen  sense  of  humor 
which  he  possessed.  Quick  and  keen  at  repartee,  he  never 
practised  it  save  when  worth  while.  He  never  said  the 
clearly  obvious  thing.  Failing  something  better  than  that, 
he  held  his  peace. 

Had  it  not  been  for  his  disinclination  to  publish  his 
verses,  he  long  ago  would  have  had  a  national  reputa 
tion.  His  reason  for  this  disinclination,  as  I  gathered 
from  many  talks  with  him,  was  that  he  did  not  consider 
his  work  of  sufficiently  high  poetic  standard.  Every  one 
praised  his  choice  of  words,  his  wonderful  facility  in  rhyme, 
the  perfection  of  his  metre,  and  the  daintiness  and  deli 
cacy  of  his  verse.  "  All  right,"  he  would  say,  "but  that 

[vii] 


is  not  Poetry  with  a  big  P,  and  that  is  the  only  kind  that 
should  be  published.  And  there  is  mighty  little  of  it." 
It  is  fortunate  that  this  severe  judgment,  creditable  as 
it  was  to  him,  is  not  to  prevail.  Lovers  of  the  beautiful 
are  not  to  be  robbed  of  "  Sit  Closer,  Friends,"  nor  of 
"  A  Poet's  Lesson,"  and  many  who  never  heard  of  that 
remarkable  Spanish  pachyderm  will  take  delight  in  the 
story  of  "The  Rollicking  Mastodon,"  whose  home  was 
"in  the  trunk  of  a  Tranquil  Tree."  The  greater  part  of 
his  verses  with  which  I  am  familiar  I  heard  at  Papyrus 
Club  dinners.  He  was  an  early  member,  and  one  of  the 
most  esteemed.  He  was  fairly  sure  to  have  something 
in  his  pocket,  and  the  presiding  officer  never  called  upon 
him  in  vain. 

It  was  so  at  the  Saint  Botolph  Club,  of  which  he  was 
long  a  member.  Whenever  there  was  an  "  occasion  " 
when  the  need  of  verse  seemed  indicated,  Arthur  Macy 
could  be  counted  on.  His  "  Saint  Botolph,"  which  has 
become  the  Club  song,  and  will  be  sung  as  long  as  the 
Club  endures,  was  written  for  a  Twelfth  Night  revel  at 
my  request.  It  has  a  peculiarly  old  English  flavor.  He 
makes  of  the  Saint,  not  the  jolly  friar  nor  yet  the  severe 
recluse,  but  just  a  good,  kind  old  man  who  "  was  loved  by 

[  viii  ] 


the  sinners  and  loved  by  the  good,"  one  who  was  certain 
that  there  must  be  sin  so  long  as 

"  A  few  get  the  loaves  and  many  get  the  crumbs, 
And  some  are  born  fingers  and  some  are  born  thumbs." 

And  here  we  get  a  glimpse  of  Arthur  Macy's  view  of 
life,  which  was  certainly  broad  and  generous,  with  a  phi 
losophic  flavor. 

Arthur  Macy  had  a  business  side  of  which  his  Club 
intimates  had  but  slight  knowledge.  He  represented, 
in  New  England,  one  of  the  great  commercial  agencies 
of  the  country.  His  knowledge  of  business  men,  of  their 
standing,  commercially  and  financially,  was  extended  and 
intimate,  and  was  relied  upon  by  our  merchants  and  others 
as  a  basis  for  giving  credit.  His  office  work  required  the 
closest  attention  to  details  and  the  exercise  of  the  most 
careful  judgment.  The  whole  success  of  such  a  company 
as  that  which  he  represented  depends  upon  the  reliability 
of  the  information  which  it  gives.  Without  this  it  has 
no  reason  for  existence.  It  was  to  Arthur  Macy  that  the 
merchants  of  Boston  largely  turned  for  information  con 
cerning  their  customers  scattered  throughout  New  Eng 
land,  and  it  was  because  of  his  success  in  obtaining  such 
information  and  his  thorough  knowledge  of  the  business 

[ix] 


in  all  its  details  that  the  superior  officers  of  the  company 
placed  such  implicit  confidence  in  his  judgment  and  so 
high  a  value  upon  his  advice.  And  in  the  conduct  of  this 
business  he  showed  his  Quaker  straightforwardness.  His 
work  was  not  at  all  of  the  "  detective  "  sort.  If  informa 
tion  was  wanted  concerning  a  man's  business  by  those  who 
had  dealings  with  him,  Macy  went  directly  to  the  man  him 
self,  and  told  him  that  it  was  for  his  own  best  interest  to 
show  just  where  he  stood,  and,  above  all  things,  to  tell  the 
exact  truth.  Honest  men  had  the  truth  told  about  them, 
and  profited  by  it.  Dishonest  men  and  secretive  men  were 
passed  over  in  severe  silence,  and  their  credit  suffered 
accordingly.  Few  of  those  who  sought  Arthur  Macy  for 
business  information  ever  suspected  that  they  were  talk 
ing  to  a  poet  and  man  of  letters. 

I  have  not  sought  to  tell  Arthur  Macy's  life  story. 
Neither  have  I  entered  upon  any  detailed  consideration 
of  his  verse.  It  is  for  the  reader  to  peruse  the  pages  that 
follow  and  draw  his  own  conclusion.  I  have  merely  tried 
to  give  a  glimpse  of  the  characteristics  of  one  of  the 
most  charming  personalities  I  ever  knew. 

WILLIAM  ALFRED  HOVEY. 
ST.  BOTOLPH  CLUB, 

Boston,  June  7, 


CONTENTS 


FRONTISPIECE          ....        Portrait  of  Arthur  Macy 

INTRODUCTION     .        .        .        .       .        .        .        .  .  v 

POEMS 

In  Remembrance       .        .        .        .        .                 .        .  .1 

The  Old  Cafd         .                4 

At  Marliave's     ...        .        •        «        ••        .  .8 

The  Passing  of  the  Rose 9 

A  Valentine .10 

Disenchantment     .        . 12 

Constancy          .         .        .        .        .        .        .        •        -.  .     15 

A  Poet's  Lesson     .        .        .        .        ...        .        .  17 

"  Place  aux  Dames  " 19 

All  on  a  Golden  Summer  Day        ...        .        «        .  20 

Prismatic  Boston       .        .        .        .                 .        .        .  .21 

The  Book  Hunter  ....        .        .        .        .        .  25 

The  Three  Voices     .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .  .27 

Easy  Knowledge    .                 ...        .        •        .        .  28 

Susan  Scuppernong  ....        .        .        .        .  .29 

The  Hatband         .        .        .        ....        .        .  30 

The  Oyster .        .        .  .31 

Wind  and  Rain    -.-...        .        ...        .  32 

The  Flag   .      .  .        ...        ...        .        .  .    34 

My  Masterpiece     .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        •  36 

[xi] 


A  Ballade  of  Montaigne 40 

The  Criminal 42 

A  Bit  of  Color 45 

Dinner  Favors        ..        v        ......        48 

The  Moper        .  '      .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .51 

Various  Valentines         ........        54 

Were  all  the  World  like  You 59 

Here  and  There 60 

Uncle  Jogalong ,        .        .62 

The  Indifferent  Mariner .        64 

On  a  Library  Wall .        .        .66 

Mrs.  Mulligatawny 67 

Euthanasia 70 

Dainty  Little  Love 71 

To  M ...        .72 

The  Song       ..........        73 

At  Twilight  Time      .        ...        . '      .        .        .        .        .76 

Celeste 78 

Thistle-Down 80 

The  Slumber  Song         ....'.....       81 

Thou  art  to  Me 82 

Love       .        ...        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        83 

The  Stranger-Man     .        .        . 84 

The  Honeysuckle  Vine          ...        .        .        .        .        .        86 

Saint  Botolph    .        .        . 87 

The  Gurgling  Imps 90 

The  Worm  will  Turn 91 

The  Boston  Cats    .        .  ...        .        .        .        94 

The  Jonquil  Maid      ....        .        .        .        .  .96 

The  Rollicking  Mastodon     .        .        .        .        .        .        .        99 

[xii] 


The  Five  Senses •        •        •  IO2 

Economy •        •  .      •        •       IO3 

Idylettes  of  the  Queen I05 

ToM.  E.        .        . .110 

Bon  Voyage       .        .        •        •        •        •        •        •        •        •  1 1 1 

The  Book  of  Life  .        .        .        .        •        •        •        •        -I" 


[xiii] 


POEMS 

IN    REMEMBRANCE 

[W.   L.   C] 


closer,  friends,  around  the  board  ! 
Death  grants  us  yet  a  little  time. 
Now  let  the  cheering  cup  be  poured, 

And  welcome  song  and  jest  and  rhyme. 
Enjoy  the  gifts  that  fortune  sends. 
Sit  closer,  friends  ! 

And  yet,  we  pause.   With  trembling  lip 
We  strive  the  fitting  phrase  to  make  ; 

Remembering  our  fellowship, 
Lamenting  Destiny's  mistake. 

We  marvel  much  when  Fate  offends, 
And  claims  our  friends. 


Companion  of  our  nights  of  mirth, 
Where  all  were  merry  who  were  wise ; 

Does  Death  quite  understand  your  worth, 
And  know  the  value  of  his  prize  ? 

I  doubt  me  if  he  comprehends  — 
He  knows  no  friends. 

And  in  that  realm  is  there  no  joy 
Of  comrades  and  the  jocund  sense  ? 

Can  Death  so  utterly  destroy  — 
For  gladness  grant  no  recompense  ? 

And  can  it  be  that  laughter  ends 
With  absent  friends  ? 

Oh,  scholars  whom  we  wisest  call, 

Who  solve  great  questions  at  your  ease, 

We  ask  the  simplest  of  them  all, 
And  yet  you  cannot  answer  these ! 

And  is  it  thus  your  knowledge  ends, 
To  comfort  friends  ? 

Dear  Omar !  should  You  chance  to  meet 
Our  Brother  Somewhere  in  the  Gloom, 


Pray  give  to  Him  a  Message  sweet, 

From  Brothers  in  the  Tavern  Room. 
He  will  not  ask  who  't  is  that  sends, 
For  We  were  Friends. 

Again  a  parting  sail  we  see ; 

Another  boat  has  left  the  shore. 
A  kinder  soul  on  board  has  she 

Than  ever  left  the  land  before. 
And  as  her  outward  course  she  bends, 
Sit  closer,  friends ! 


[3] 


THE    OLD   CAFE 

ou  know, 
Don't  you,  Joe, 

Those  merry  evenings  long  ago  ? 
You  know  the  room,  the  narrow  stair, 
The  wreaths  of  smoke  that  circled  there, 
The  corner  table  where  we  sat 
For  hours  in  after-dinner  chat, 
And  magnified 
Our  little  world  inside. 
You  know, 
Don't  you,  Joe  ? 

Ah,  those  nights  divine  ! 
The  simple,  frugal  wine, 
The  airs  on  crude  Italian  strings, 
The  joyous,  harmless  revelings, 
Just  fit  for  us  —  or  kings  ! 
At  times  a  quaint  and  wickered  flask 
Of  rare  Chianti,  or  from  the  homelier  cask 
[4] 


Of  modest  Pilsener  a  stein  or  so, 

Amid  the  merry  talk  would  flow ; 

Or  red  Bordeaux 

From  vines  that  grew  where  dear  Montaigne 

Held  his  domain. 

And  you  remember  that  dark  eye, 

None  too  shy ; 

In  fact,  she  seemed  a  bit  too  free 

For  you  and  me. 

You  know, 

Don't  you,  Joe  ? 

Then  Pegasus  I  knew, 

And  then  I  read  to  you 

My  callow  rhymes 

So  many,  many  times  ; 

And  something  in  the  place 

Lent  them  a  certain  grace, 

Until  I  scarce  believed  them  mine, 

Under  the  magic  of  the  wine ; 

But  now  I  read  them  o'er, 

And  see  grave  faults  I  had  not  seen  before, 

And  wonder  how 

[5] 


You  could  have  listened  with  such  placid  brow, 

And  somehow  apprehend 

You  sank  the  critic  in  the  friend. 

You  know, 

Don't  you,  Joe  ? 

And  when  we  talked  of  books, 

How  learned  were  our  looks  ! 

And  few  the  bards  we  could  not  quote, 

From  gay  Catullus'  lines  to  Milton's  purer  note. 

Mayhap  we  now  are  wiser  men, 

But  we  knew  more  than  all  the  scholars  then ; 

And  our  conceit 

Was  grand,  ineffable,  complete  ! 

We  know, 

Don't  we,  Joe  ? 

Gone  are  those  golden  nights 
Of  innocent  Bohemian  delights, 
And  we  are  getting  on  ; 
And  anon, 

Years  sad  and  tremulous 
May  be  in  store  for  us  ; 

[6] 


But  should  we  ever  meet 

Upon  some  quiet  street, 

And  you  discover  in  an  old  man's  eye 

Some  transient  sparkle  of  the  days  gone  by, 

Then  you  will  guess,  perchance, 

The  meaning  of  the  glance ; 

You  '11  know, 

Won't  you,  Joe  ? 


[7] 


AT   MARLIAVE'S 


A 


Marliave's  when  eventide 
Finds  rare  companions  at  my  side, 
The  laughter  of  each  merry  guest 
At  quaint  conceit,  or  kindly  jest, 
Makes  golden  moments  swiftly  glide. 
No  voice  unkind  our  faults  to  chide, 
Our  smallest  virtue  magnified ; 

And  friendly  hand  to  hand  is  pressed 
At  Marliave's. 

I  lay  my  years  and  cares  aside 
Accepting  what  the  gods  provide, 
I  ask  not  for  a  lot  more  blest, 
Nor  do  I  crave  a  sweeter  rest 
Than  that  which  comes  with  eventide 

At  Marliave's. 


[8] 


THE   PASSING   OF   THE   ROSE 


A 


WHITE  ROSE  said,  "  How  fair  am  I. 
Behold  a  flower  that  cannot  die !  " 

A  lover  brushed  the  dew  aside, 
And  fondly  plucked  it  for  his  bride. 
"  A  fitting  choice !  "  the  White  Rose  cried. 

The  maiden  wore  it  in  her  hair ; 
The  Rose,  contented  to  be  there, 
Still  proudly  boasted,  "  None  so  fair  !  " 

Then  close  she  pressed  it  to  her  lips, 
But,  weary  of  companionships, 
The  flower  within  her  bosom  slips. 

O'ercome  by  all  the  beauty  there, 

It  straight  confessed,  "  Dear  maid,  I  swear 

'T  is  you,  and  you  alone,  are  fair !  " 

Turning  its  humbled  head  aside, 
The  envious  Rose,  lamenting,  died. 

[9] 


A  VALENTINE 

[FROM  A  VERY  LITTLE  BOY  TO  A  VERY  LITTLE  GIRL] 


T, 


HIS  is  a  valentine  for  you. 
Mother  made  it.    She  's  real  smart, 
I  told  her  that  I  loved  you  true 
And  you  were  my  sweetheart. 

And  then  she  smiled,  and  then  she  winked, 

And  then  she  said  to  father, 
"Beginning  young!  "  and  then  he  thinked, 
And  then  he  said,  "Well,  rather." 


Then  mother's  eyes  began  to  shine, 
And  then  she  made  this  valentine  : 
"  If  you  love  me  as  I  love  you, 
No  knife  shall  cut  our  love  in  two," 
And  father  laughed  and  said,  "  How  new  !  " 
And  then  he  said,  "It 's  time  for  bed." 
[10] 


So,  when  I  'd  said  my  prayers, 
Mother  came  running  up  the  stairs 
And  told  me  I  might  send  the  rhymes, 
And  then  she  kissed  me  lots  of  times. 
Then  I  turned  over  to  the  wall 
And  cried  about  you,  and  —  that 's  all. 


DISENCHANTMENT 


T, 


IME  and  I  have  fallen  out ; 
We,  who  were  such  steadfast  friends. 
So  slowly  has  it  come  about 
That  none  may  tell  when  it  began  ; 
Yet  sure  am  I  a  cunning  plan 
Runs  through  it  all ; 
And  now,  beyond  recall, 
Our  friendship  ends, 
And  ending,  there  remains  to  me 
The  memory  of  disloyalty. 

Long  years  ago  Time  tripping  came 
With  promise  grand, 
And  sweet  assurances  of  fame ; 
And  hand  in  hand 
Through  fairy-land 
Went  he  and  I  together 
In  bright  and  golden  weather. 
Then,  then  I  had  not  learned  to  doubt, 
[12] 


For  friends  were  gods,  and  faith  was  sure, 
And  words  were  truth,  and  deeds  were  pure, 
Before  we  had  our  falling  out ; 
And  life,  all  hope,  was  fair  to  see, 
When  Time  made  promise  sweet  to  me. 

When  first  my  faithless  friend  grew  cold 

I  sought  to  knit  a  closer  bond, 

But  he,  less  fond, 

Sad  days  and  years  upon  me  rolled, 

Pressed  me  with  care, 

With  envy  tinged  the  boyhood  hair, 

And  ploughed  unwelcome  furrows  in 

Where  none  had  been. 

In  vain  I  begged  with  trembling  lip 

For  our  old  sweet  companionship, 

And  saw,  'mid  prayers  and  tears  devout, 

The  presage  of  our  falling  out. 

And  now  I  know  Time  has  no  friends, 

Nor  pity  lends, 

But  touches  all 

With  heavy  finger  soon  or  late ; 

[13] 


And  as  we  wait 

The  Reaper's  call, 

The  sickle's  fatal  sweep, 

We  strive  in  vain  to  keep 

One  truth  inviolate, 

One  cherished  fancy  free  from  doubt. 

It  was  not  so 

Long  years  ago, 

Before  we  had  our  falling  out. 

If  Time  would  come  again  to  me, 

And  once  more  take  me  by  the  hand 

For  golden  walks  through  fairy-land, 

I  could  forgive  the  treachery 

That  stole  my  youth 

And  what  of  truth 

Was  mine  to  know ; 

Nor  would  I  more  his  love  misdoubt ; 

And  I  would  throw 

My  arms  around  him  so, 

That  he  'd  forgive  the  falling  out ! 


[14] 


CONSTANCY 

JL  FIRST  saw  Phebe  when  the  show'rs 
Had  just  made  brighter  all  the  flow'rs ; 

Yet  she  was  fair 

As  any  there, 
And  so  I  loved  her  hours  and  hours. 

Then  I  met  Helen,  and  her  ways 
Set  my  untutored  heart  ablaze. 
I  loved  at  sight 
And  deemed  it  right 
To  worship  her  for  days  and  days. 

Yet  when  I  gazed  on  Clara's  cheeks 
And  spoke  the  language  Cupid  speaks, 
O'er  all  the  rest 
She  seemed  the  best, 
And  so  I  loved  her  weeks  and  weeks. 

But  last  of  Love's  sweet  souvenirs 
Was  Delia  with  her  sighs  and  tears. 

[15] 


Of  her  it  seemed 
I  'd  always  dreamed, 
And  so  I  loved  her  years  and  years. 

But  now  again  with  Phebe  met, 
I  love  the  first  one  of  the  set. 

"  Fickle,"  you  say  ? 

I  answer,  "  Nay, 
My  heart  is  true  to  one  quartette." 


[16] 


A  POET'S   LESSON 

GET,  my  master,  come,  tell  me  true, 

And  how  are  your  verses  made  ? 
Ah !  that  is  the  easiest  thing  to  do  :  — 
You  take  a  cloud  of  a  silvern  hue, 
A  tender  smile  or  a  sprig  of  rue, 
With  plenty  of  light  and  shade, 

And  weave  them  round  in  syllables  rare, 
With  a  grace  and  skill  divine ; 

With  the  earnest  words  of  a  pleading  prayer, 

With  a  cadence  caught  from  a  dulcet  air, 

A  tale  of  love  and  a  lock  of  hair, 
Or  a  bit  of  a  trailing  vine. 

Or,  delving  deep  in  a  mine  unwrought, 
You  find  in  the  teeming  earth 

The  golden  vein  of  a  noble  thought ; 

The  soul  of  a  statesman  still  unbought, 

Or  a  patriot's  cry  with  anguish  fraught 
For  the  land  that  gave  him  birth. 


A  brilliant  youth  who  has  lost  his  way 
On  the  winding  road  of  life ; 

A  sculptor's  dream  of  the  plastic  clay ; 

A  painter's  soul  in  a  sunset  ray ; 

The  sweetest  thing  a  woman  can  say, 
Or  a  struggling  nation's  strife. 

A  boy's  ambition ;  a  maiden's  star, 

Unrisen,  but  yet  to  be ; 
A  glimmering  light  that  shines  afar 
For  a  sinking  ship  on  a  moaning  bar ; 
An  empty  sleeve ;  a  veteran's  scar ; 

Or  a  land  where  men  are  free. 

And  if  the  poet's  hand  be  strong 

To  weave  the  web  of  a  deathless  song, 

And  if  a  master  guide  the  pen 

To  words  that  reach  the  hearts  of  men, 

And  if  the  ear  and  the  touch  be  true, 

It 's  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world  to  do ! 


[18] 


"PLACE   AUX   DAMES" 

[  To  M.  ] 


w, 


'ITH  brilliant  friends  surrounding  me, 
So  cosy  at  the  Club  I  'm  sitting ; 
While  you  at  home  I  seem  to  see, 

Attending  strictly  to  your  knitting. 

When  women  have  their  rights,  my  dear, 

We  '11  hear  no  more  of  wrongs  so  shocking 

You  with  your  friends  shall  gather  here ; 

1 11  stay  at  home  and  darn  the  stocking ! 


ALL  ON   A   GOLDEN   SUMMER   DAY 

LL  on  a  golden  summer  day, 
As  through  the  leaves  a  single  ray 
Of  yellow  sunshine  finds  its  way 

So  bright,  so  bright ; 
The  wakened  birds  that  blithely  sing 
Seem  welcoming  another  spring ; 
While  all  the  woods  are  murmuring 
So  light,  so  light. 

All  on  a  golden  summer  day, 
When  to  my  heart  a  single  ray 
Of  tender  kindness  finds  its  way, 

So  bright,  so  bright ; 

Then  comes  sweet  hope  and  bravely  dares 
To  break  the  chain  that  sorrow  wears  — 
And  all  my  burdens,  all  my  cares 

Are  light,  so  light ! 


[20] 


PRISMATIC    BOSTON 


JP  AIR  city  by  the  famed  Batrachian  Pool, 

Wise  in  the  teachings  of  the  Concord  School ; 

Home  of  the  Eurus,  paradise  of  cranks, 

Stronghold  of  thrift,  proud  in  your  hundred  banks ; 

Land  of  the  mind-cure  and  the  abstruse  book, 

The  Monday  lecture  and  the  shrinking  Cook; 

Where  twin-lensed  maidens,  careless  of  their  shoes, 

In  phrase  Johnsonian  oft  express  their  views ; 

Where  realistic  pens  invite  the  throng 

To  mention  "  spades,"  lest  "  shovels  "  should  be  wrong ; 

Where  gaping  strangers  read  the  thrilling  ode 

To  Pilgrim  Trousers  on  the  West-End  road ; 

Where  strange  sartorial  questions  as  to  pants 

Offend  our  "  sisters,  cousins,  and  our  aunts  ; " 

Where  men  expect  by  simple  faith  and  prayer 

To  lift  a  lid  and  find  a  dollar  there ; 

Where  labyrinthine  lanes  that  sinuous  creep 

Make  Theseus  sigh  and  Ariadne  weep ; 

Where  clubs  gregarious  take  commercial  risks 

[21] 


'Mid  fluctuations  of  alluring  disks ; 
Where  Beacon  Hill  is  ever  proud  to  show 
Her  reeking  veins  of  liquid  indigo ; 
To  thee,  fair  land,  I  dedicate  my  song, 
And  tell  how  simple,  artless  minds  go  wrong. 


A  Common  Councilman,  with  lordly  air, 
One  day  went  strolling  down  through  Copley  Square. 
Within  his  breast  there  beat  a  spotless  heart ; 
His  taste  was  pure,  his  soul  was  steeped  in  art. 
For  he  had  worshiped  oft  at  Cass's  shrine, 
Had  daily  knelt  at  Cogswell's  fount  divine, 
And  chaste  surroundings  of  the  City  Hall 
Had  taught  him  much,  and  so  he  knew  it  all. 
Proud,  in  a  sack  coat  and  a  high  silk  hat, 
Content  in  knowing  just  "where  he  was  at," 
He  wandered  on,  till  gazing  toward  the  skies, 
A  nameless  horror  met  his  modest  eyes ; 
For  where  the  artist's  chisel  had  engrossed 
An  emblem  fit  on  Boston's  proudest  boast, 
There  stood  aloft,  with  graceful  equipoise, 
Two  very  small,  unexpurgated  boys. 
[22] 


Filled  with  solicitude  for  city  youth, 
Whose  morals  suffer  when  they  're  told  the  truth, 
Whose  ethic  standards  high  and  higher  rise, 
When  taught  that  God  and  nature  are  but  lies, 
In  haste  he  to  the  council  chamber  hied, 
His  startled  fellow-members  called  aside, 
His  fearful  secret  whispering  disclosed, 
Till  all  their  separate  joints  were  ankylosed. 
Appalling  was  the  silence  at  his  tale ; 
Democrats  turned  red,  Republicans  turned  pale. 
What  mugwumps  turned  't  is  difficult  to  think, 
But  probably  they  compromised  on  pink. 

When  these  stern  moralists  had  their  breaths  regained, 
And  told  how  deeply  they  were  shocked  and  pained, 
They  then  resolved  how  wrong  our  children  are, 
Said,  "  Boys  should  be  contented  with  a  scar/* 
Rebuked  Dame  Nature  for  her  deadly  sins, 
And  damned  trustees  who  foster  "  Heavenly  Twins." 

O  Councilmen,  if  it  were  left  for  you 

To  say  what  art  is  false  and  what  is  true, 

What  strange  anomalies  would  the  world  behold ! 

[23] 


Dolls  would  be  angels,  dross  would  count  for  gold ; 

Vice  would  be  virtue,  virtues  would  be  taints ; 

Gods  would  be  devils,  Councilmen  be  saints ; 

And  this  sage  law  by  your  wise  minds  be  built : 
"  No  boy  shall  live  if  born  without  a  kilt." 

Then  you  'd  resolve,  to  soothe  all  moral  aches, 
"  We  're  always  right,  but  God  has  made  mistakes." 


[24] 


THE   BOOK  HUNTER 

A  'VE  spent  all  my  money  in  chasing 

For  books  that  are  costly  and  rare ; 
I  Ve  made  myself  bankrupt  in  tracing 

Each  prize  to  its  ultimate  lair. 
And  now  I  'm  a  ruined  collector, 

Impoverished,  ragged,  and  thin, 
Reduced  to  a  vanishing  spectre, 

Because  of  my  prodigal  sin. 

How  often  I  Ve  called  upon  Foley, 

The  man  who 's  a  friend  of  the  cranks  ; 
Knows  books  that  are  witty  or  holy, 

And  whether  they  're  prizes  or  blanks. 
For  volumes  on  paper  or  vellum 

He  has  a  most  accurate  eye, 
And  always  is  willing  to  sell  'em 

To  dreamers  like  me  who  will  buy. 

My  purse  requires  fences  and  hedges, 
Alas  !  it  will  never  stay  shut ; 

[25] 


My  coat-sleeves  now  have  deckle  edges, 
My  hair  is  unkempt  and  "uncut." 

My  coat  is  a  true  first  edition, 

And  rusty  from  shoulder  to  waist ; 

My  trousers  are  out  of  condition, 

Their  "  colophon  "  worn  and  defaced. 

My  shoes  have  been  long  out  of  fashion, 

"  Crushed  leather  "  they  both  seem  to  be  ; 
My  hat  is  a  thing  for  compassion, 

The  kind  that  is  labelled  "  n.  d." 
My  vest  from  its  binding  is  broken, 

It 's  what  the  French  call  a  relique  ; 
What  I  think  of  it  cannot  be  spoken, 

Its  catalogue  mark  is  "  unique." 

I  'm  a  book  that  is  thumbed  and  untidy, 

The  only  one  left  of  the  set ; 
I  'm  sure  I  was  issued  on  Friday, 

For  fate  is  unkind  to  me  yet. 
My  text  has  been  cruelly  garbled 

By  a  destiny  harder  than  flint ; 
But  I  wait  for  my  grave  to  be  "  marbled," 

And  then  I  shall  be  out  of  print. 
[26] 


THE   THREE   VOICES 


T, 


HERE  once  was  a  man  who  asked  for  pie, 
In  a  piping  voice  up  high,  up  high  ; 
And  when  he  asked  for  a  salmon  roe, 
He  spoke  in  a  voice  down  low,  down  low ; 
But  when  he  said  he  had  no  choice, 
He  always  spoke  in  a  medium  voice. 

I  cannot  tell  the  reason  why 

He  sometimes  spoke  up  high,  up  high ; 

And  why  he  sometimes  spoke  down  low, 

I  do  not  know,  I  do  not  know  ; 

And  why  he  spoke  in  the  medium  way, 

Don't  ask  me,  for  I  cannot  say. 


[27] 


EASY   KNOWLEDGE 


H, 


.ow  nice  't  would  be  if  knowledge  grew 
On  bushes,  as  the  berries  do  ! 
Then  we  could  plant  our  spelling  seed, 
And  gather  all  the  words  we  need. 
The  sums  from  off  our  slates  we  'd  wipe, 
And  wait  for  figures  to  be  ripe, 
And  go  into  the  fields,  and  pick 
Whole  bushels  of  arithmetic ; 
Or  if  we  wished  to  learn  Chinese, 
We  'd  just  go  out  and  shake  the  trees  ; 
And  grammar  then,  in  all  the  towns, 
Would  grow  with  proper  verbs  and  nouns  ; 
And  in  the  gardens  there  would  be 
Great  bunches  of  geography ; 
And  all  the  passers-by  would  stop, 
And  marvel  at  the  knowledge  crop ; 
And  I  my  pen  would  cease  to  push, 
And  pluck  my  verses  from  a  bush ! 

[28] 


SUSAN   SCUPPERNONG 

OILLY  Susan  Scuppernong 
Cried  so  hard  and  cried  so  long, 
People  asked  her  what  was  wrong. 

She  replied,  "  I  do  not  know 
Any  reason  for  my  woe  — 
I  just  feel  like  feeling  so." 


[29] 


THE   HATBAND 


M 


.Y  hatband  goes  around  my  hat, 
And  while  there 's  nothing  strange  in  that, 
It  seems  just  like  a  lazy  man 
Who  leaves  off  where  he  first  began. 

But  then  this  fact  is  always  true, 
The  band  does  what  it  ought  to  do, 
And  is  more  useful  than  the  man, 
Because  it  does  the  best  it  can. 


[30] 


THE  OYSTER 


T 


wo  halves  of  an  oyster  shell,  each  a  shallow  cup ; 
Here  once  lived  an  oyster  before  they  ate  him  up. 
Oyster  shells  are  smooth  inside  ;  outside  very  rough ; 
Very  little  room  to  spare,  but  he  had  enough. 
Bedroom,  parlor,  kitchen,  or  cellar  there  was  none  ; 
Just  one  room  in  all  the  house  —  oysters  need  but  one. 
And  he  was  never  troubled  by  wind  or  rain  or  snow, 
For  he  had  a  roof  above,  another  one  below. 
I  wonder  if  they  fried  him,  or  cooked  him  in  a  stew, 
And  sold  him  at  a  fair,  and  passed  him  off  for  two. 
I  wonder  if  the  oysters  all  have  names  like  us, 
And  did  he  have  a  name  like  "  John  "  or  "  Romulus  "  ? 
I  wonder  if  his  parents  wept  to  see  him  go  ; 
I  wonder  who  can  tell ;  perhaps  the  mermaids  know. 
I  wonder  if  our  sleep  the  most  of  us  would  dread, 
If  we  slept  like  oysters,  a  million  in  a  bed ! 


[31] 


WIND  AND   RAIN 


T, 


HE  rain  came  down  on  Boston  Town, 
And  the  people  said,  "  Oh,  dear  ! 
It 's  early  yet  for  our  annual  wet,  — 
T  was  dry  this  time  last  year." 

In  heavy  suits  and  rubber  boots 

They  went  to  the  weather  man, 
And  said,  "  Dear  friend,  do  you  intend 

To  change  your  present  plan  ? " 

In  tones  of  scorn,  he  said,  "  Begone  ! 

I  Ve  ordered  a  week  of  rain. 
Away  !  disperse  !  or  I  '11  do  worse, 

And  order  a  hurricane  ! " 

They  sneered,  «  Oh,  oh !  "  and  they  laughed,  «  Ho,  ho !  " 

And  they  said,  "  You  surely  jest. 
Your  threats  are  vain,  for  a  hurricane 

Is  the  thing  that  we  like  be§t. 

[32] 


"  Our  throats  are  tinned,  and  a  sharp  east  wind 

We  really  could  n't  do  without ; 
But  we  complain  of  too  much  rain, 

And  we  think  we  'd  like  a  drought." 

So  the  weather  man  took  a  palm-leaf  fan 
And  he  waved  it  up  on  high, 

And  he  swept  away  the  clouds  so  gray, 
And  the  sun  shone  out  in  the  sky. 

And  the  sun  shines  down  on  Boston  Town, 
And  the  weather  still  is  clear ; 

And  they  set  their  clocks  by  the  equinox, 
And  never  the  east  wind  fear. 


[33] 


THE    FLAG 


H 


ERE  comes  The  Flag  1 
Hail  it ! 

Who  dares  to  drag 
Or  trail  it  ? 
Give  it  hurrahs,  — 
Three  for  the  stars, 
Three  for  the  bars. 
Uncover  your  head  to  it ! 
The  soldiers  who  tread  to  it 
Shout  at  the  sight  of  it, 
The  justice  and  right  of  it, 
The  unsullied  white  of  it, 
The  blue  and  red  of  it, 
And  tyranny's  dread  of  it ! 

Here  comes  The  Flag ! 
Cheer  it ! 
Valley  and  crag 
Shall  hear  it. 

[34] 


Fathers  shall  bless  it, 

Children  caress  it. 

All  shall  maintain  it. 

No  one  shall  stain  it, 

Cheers  for  the  sailors  that  fought  on  the  wave  for  it, 

Cheers  for  the  soldiers  that  always  were  brave  for  it, 

Tears  for  the  men  that  went  down  to  the  grave  for  it! 

Here  comes  The  Flag  ! 


[35] 


MY   MASTERPIECE 

A  WROTE  the  truest,  tend'rest  song 

The  world  had  ever  heard ; 
And  clear,  melodious,  and  strong, 

And  sweet  was  every  word. 
The  flowing  numbers  came  to  me 

Unbidden  from  the  heart ; 
So  pure  the  strain,  that  poesy 

Seemed  something  more  than  art. 

No  doubtful  cadence  marred  a  line, 

So  tunefully  it  flowed, 
And  through  the  measure,  all  divine 

The  fire  of  genius  glowed. 
So  deftly  were  the  verses  wrought, 

So  fair  the  legend  told, 
That  every  word  revealed  a  thought, 

And  every  thought  was  gold. 

Mine  was  the  charm,  the  power,  the  skill, 
The  wisdom  of  the  years ; 

[36] 


'T  was  mine  to  move  the  world  at  will 

To  laughter  or  to  tears. 
For  subtile  pleasantry  was  there, 

And  brilliant  flash  of  wit ; 
Now,  pleading  eyes  were  raised  in  prayer, 

And  now  with  smiles  were  lit. 


I  sang  of  hours  when  youth  was  king, 

And  of  one  happy  spot 
Where  life  and  love  were  everything, 

And  time  was  half  forgot. 
Of  gracious  days  in  woodland  ways, 

When  every  flower  and  tree 
Seemed  echoing  the  sweetest  phrase 

From  lips  in  Arcadie. 

Of  sagas  old  and  Norseman  bands 
That  sailed  o'er  northern  seas ; 

Enchanting  tales  of  fairy  lands 
And  strange  philosophies. 

I  sang  of  Egypt's  fairest  queen, 
With  passion's  fatal  curse ; 
[37] 


Of  that  pale,  sad-faced  Florentine, 
As  deathless  as  his  verse. 

Of  time  of  the  Arcadian  Pan, 

When  dryads  thronged  the  trees  — 
When  Atalanta  swiftly  ran 

With  fleet  Hippomenes. 
Brave  stories,  too,  did  I  relate 

Of  battle-flags  unfurled ; 
Of  glorious  days  when  Greece  was  great 

When  Rome  was  all  the  world ! 

Of  noble  deeds  for  noble  creeds, 

Of  woman's  sacrifice  — 
The  mother's  stricken  heart  that  bleeds 

For  souls  in  Paradise. 
Anon  I  told  a  tale  of  shame, 

And  while  in  tears  I  slept, 
Behold  !  a  white-robed  angel  came 

And  read  the  words  and  wept ! 

And  so  I  wrote  my  perfect  song, 
In  such  a  wondrous  key, 

[38] 


I  heard  the  plaudits  of  the  throng, 

And  fame  awaited  me. 
Alas  !  the  sullen  morning  broke, 

And  came  the  tempest's  roar : 
'Mid  discord  trembling  I  awoke, 

And  lo !  my  dream  was  o'er ! 

Yet  often  in  the  quiet  night 

My  song  returns  to  me ; 
I  seize  the  pen,  and  fain  would  write 

My  long  lost  melody. 
But  dreaming  o'er  the  words,  ere  long 

Comes  vague  remembering, 
And  fades  away  the  sweetest  song 

That  man  can  ever  sing ! 


[39] 


A   BALLADE   OF    MONTAIGNE 

A  SIT  before  the  firelight's  glow 
With  all  the  world  in  apogee, 

And  con  good  Master  Florio 
With  pipe  a-light ;  and  as  I  see 
Queen  Bess  herself  with  book  a-knee, 

Reading  it  o'er  and  o'er  again, 
Here,  'neath  my  cosy  mantel-tree, 

I  smoke  my  pipe  and  read  Montaigne. 


Now  howls  the  wind  and  drives  the  snow  ; 

The  traveler  shivers  on  the  lea ; 
While,  with  my  precious  folio, 

Behold  a  happy  devotee 

To  book  and  warmth  and  reverie  ! 
The  blast  upon  the  window-pane 

Disturbs  me  not,  as  trouble-free, 
I  smoke  my  pipe  and  read  Montaigne. 

[40] 


I  am  content,  and  thus  I  know 
A  mind  as  calm  as  summer  sea,  — 

A  heart  that  stranger  is  to  woe. 
To  happiness  I  hold  the  key 
In  this  rare,  sweet  philosophy  ; 

And  while  the  Fates  so  fair  ordain, 
Well  pleased  with  Destiny's  decree, 

I  smoke  my  pipe  and  read  Montaigne. 

ENVOY 

Dear  Prince  !  aye,  more  than  prince  to  me, 
Thou  monarch  of  immortal  reign ! 

Always  thy  subject  I  would  be, 

And  smoke  my  pipe  and  read  Montaigne ! 


[41] 


THE   CRIMINAL 


flourishes  throughout  the  land, 
And  bids  defiance  to  the  law, 
And  wicked  deeds  on  every  hand 
O'erwhelm  our  souls  with  awel 

I  know  one  hardened  criminal 

Whose  maidenhood  with  crime  begins ; 
Who,  safe  behind  a  prison  wall, 

Should  expiate  her  sins. 

She  is  a  thief  whene'er  she  smiles, 
For  then  she  steals  my  heart  from  me, 

And  keeps  it  with  a  maiden's  wiles, 
And  never  sets  it  free. 

She  plunders  sighs  from  humankind, 
She  pilfers  tears  I  would  not  weep, 

She  robs  me  of  my  peace  of  mind, 
And  she  purloins  my  sleep. 
[42] 


Of  lawless  ways  she  stands  confessed, 
And  is  a  burglar  bold  whene'er 

She  finds  a  weakness  in  my  breast, 
And  slyly  enters  there. 

A  gambler  she,  whose  arts  entrance, 
Whose  victims  yield  without  demur ; 

Content  to  play  Love's  game  of  chance 
And  lose  their  hearts  to  her. 

A  graver  crime  is  hers ;  for,  when 
Her  matchless  beauty  I  admire, 

Of  arson  she  is  guilty  then, 
And  sets  my  heart  on  fire. 

A  bandit,  preying  on  mankind, 

Her  captives  by  the  score  increase ; 

No  hand  can  e'er  their  chains  unbind, 
No  ransom  bring  release. 

She  is  a  cruel  murderess 

Whene'er  her  eyes  send  forth  a  dart, 
And  as  she  holds  me  in  duress 

It  stabs  me  to  the  heart. 
[43] 


Crime  flourishes  throughout  the  land, 
And  bids  defiance  to  the  law, 

And  wicked  deeds  on  every  hand 
O'erwhelm  our  souls  with  awe ! 


[44] 


A   BIT   OF   COLOR 

[PARIS,  1896] 


o 


H,  damsel  fair  at  the  Porte  Maillot, 
With  the  soft  blue  eyes  that  haunt  me  so, 

Pray  what  should  I  do 

When  a  girl  like  you 

Bestows  her  smile,  her  glance,  and  her  sigh 
On  the  first  fond  fool  that  is  passing  by, 
Who  listens  and  longs  as  the  sweet  words  flow 
From  her  pretty  red  lips  at  the  Porte  Maillot  ? 

There  were  lips  as  red  ere  you  were  born, 
Now  wreathed  in  smiles,  now  curled  in  scorn, 

And  other  bright  eyes 

With  their  truth  and  lies, 
That  broke  the  heart  and  turned  the  brain 
Of  many  a  tender,  lovelorn  swain  ; 
But  never,  I  ween,  brought  half  the  woe 
That  comes  from  the  lips  at  the  Porte  Maillot. 
[45] 


A  charming  picture,  there  you  stand, 
A  perfect  work  from  a  master's  hand ! 

With  your  face  so  fair 

And  your  wondrous  hair, 
Your  glorious  color,  your  light  and  shade, 
And  your  classic  head  that  the  gods  have  made, 
Your  cheeks  with  crimson  all  aglow, 
As  you  wait  for  a  lover  at  the  Porte  Maillot. 

There  are  gorgeous  tints  in  the  jeweled  crown, 
There  are  brilliant  shades  when  the  sun  goes  down ; 

But  your  lips  vie 

With  the  western  sky, 
And  give  to  the  world  so  rare  a  hue 
That  the  painter  must  learn  his  art  anew, 
And  the  sunset  borrow  a  brighter  glow 
From  the  lips  of  the  girl  at  the  Porte  Maillot. 

Come,  tell  me  truly,  fair-haired  youth, 

Do  her  eyes  flash  love,  her  lips  speak  truth  ? 

Or  does  she  beguile 

With  her  glance  and  smile, 

[46] 


And  burn  you,  spurn  you  all  day  long 
With  a  Circe's  art  and  a  Siren's  song  ? 
Ah  !  would  that  your  foolish  heart  might  know 
The  lie  in  the  heart  at  the  Porte  Maillot ! 


[47] 


DINNER   FAVORS 


TO  S. 


i 


FILL  my  goblet  to  the  brim 
And  clink  the  glasses  rim  to  rim. 
Across  the  board  I  waft  a  kiss 
With  thanks  for  such  an  hour  as  this, 
And  clasping  joy,  bid  sorrow  flee, 
And  welcome  you  my  vis-a-vis. 


TO  A.  R.  C. 

Of  all  the  joys  on  earth  that  be 
There  is  no  sweeter  one  to  me 
Than  sitting  with  a  merry  lass 
From  consommd  to  demi-tasse. 

And  yet  a  golden  hour  I  'd  steal, 
Reverse  the  order  of  the  meal, 

[48] 


And  countermarching,  backward  stray 
From  demi-tasse  to  consomme". 


TO  S.  B.  F. 

Give  me  but  a  bit  to  eat, 

And  an  hour  or  two, 
Just  a  salad  and  a  sweet, 

And  a  chat  with  you. 
Give  me  table  full  or  bare, 

Crust  or  rich  ragout ; 
But  whatever  be  the  fare, 

Always  give  me  you. 

THE   HOST 

Between  the  two  perplexed  I  go, 
A  shuttlecock,  tossed  to  and  fro. 
I  gaze  on  one,  and  know  that  she 
Is  all  that  womankind  can  be ; 
I  seek  the  other,  and  she  seems 
The  perfect  idol  of  my  dreams ; 

[49] 


And  so  between  the  charming  pair 
My  heart  is  ever  in  the  air. 
And  yet,  although  it  be  my  fate 
To  hover  indeterminate, 
I  rest  content,  nor  ask  for  more 
Than  this  sweet  game  of  battledore. 


[50] 


THE   MOPER 


T, 


HE  Moper  mopeth  all  the  day  ; 

He  mopeth  eke  at  night ; 
And  never  is  the  Moper  gay, 
But,  grim  and  serious  alway, 

He  is  a  sorry  sight. 


He  liketh  not  the  merry  quip  ; 

He  hateth  other  men  ; 
Escheweth  he  companionship, 
Nor  doth  he  e'er  essay  to  trip 

The  light  fantastic  ten. 


He  seeketh  not  where  murm'ring  brooks 

With  rippling  music  flow. 
He  seeth  naught  in  woman's  looks, 
And  never  readeth  he  in  books 

Except  they  tell  of  woe. 


He  e'en  forgetteth  that  the  sun, 
Likewise  God's  balmy  air, 

Were  made  to  gladden  every  one  ; 

But  he  preferreth  both  to  shun, 
And  taketh  not  his  share. 

He  careth  not  for  merry  wights 

Who  drink  Chateau  Yquem, 
But  he  would  set  the  world  to  rights 
By  peopling  it  with  eremites  — 
And  very  few  of  them. 

When  children  sport  with  merry  glee, 
He  thinketh  they  are  wild, 

And  with  them  doth  so  disagree 

It  seemeth  verily  that  he 

Hath  never  been  a  child. 

He  thinketh  that  it  is  not  right 

Rare  dishes  to  discuss, 
And  knoweth  not  the  keen  delight 
Of  one  that  hath  an  appetite 

Ycleped  ravenous. 

[52] 


Of  goodly  raiment  he  hath  none, 

He  calleth  it  "  display  ;  " 
Wherefore  the  urchin  poketh  fun, 
Because  he  looketh  like  that  one 

Unholy  men  call  "  jay." 

And  so  we  see  this  foolish  man 

All  pleasant  things  doth  scorn. 
Good  folk,  pray  God  to  change  his  plan, 
And  cheer  the  Moper  if  He  can, 
Or  let  no  more  be  born ! 


[53] 


VARIOUS   VALENTINES 

i 

FROM   A   BIBLIOPHILE 


JL/YKE  some  choise  booke  thou  arte  toe  mee, 

Bound  all  so  daintilie  ; 

And  'neath  the  covers  faire 

Are  contents  true  and  rare. 

Ne  wolde  I  looke 

Ne  reade  inne  any  other  booke 

If  I  belyke  could  find  therein  the  charte 

And  indice  to  thy  hearte. 

The  Great  Wise  Authour  made  but  one 

Of  this  edition,  then  was  don ; 

And  were  this  onlie  copie  mine, 

Then  wolde  I  write  therein,  "  My  Valentyne." 


[54] 


II 

FROM  AN   INCONSTANT-CONSTANT 
(After  Henri  Murger) 

Though  I  love  many  maidens  fair 
As  fondly  as  a  heart  may  dare, 
Yet  still  are  you  the  only  one 
True  goddess  of  my  pantheon. 

And  though  my  life  is  like  a  song, 
Each  maid  a  stanza,  clear  and  strong, 
Yet  always  I  return  again 
To  you  who  are  the  sweet  refrain. 


Ill 
FROM   A   COMMERCIAL  LOVER 

If  I  were  but  a  syndicate, 

And  love  were  merchandise, 

I  'd  buy  it  at  the  market  rate, 
And  hold  it  for  a  rise. 
[55] 


And  should  the  price  of  all  this  love 
Bound  upward  like  a  ball, 

And  reach  1000  or  above, 

Still  you  should  have  it  all. 

IV 
FROM  AN   UNCERTAIN   MARKSMAN 

I  send  you  two  kisses 

Wrapped  up  in  a  rhyme  ; 

From  Love's  warm  abysses 

I  send  you  two  kisses  ; 

If  one  of  them  misses 

Please  wait  till  next  time, 

And  I  '11  send  you  three  kisses 
Wrapped  up  in  a  rhyme. 

V 
FROM   A  CONCHOLOGIST 

Were  I  a  murm'ring  ocean  shell 
Pressed  close  against  your  ear, 
[56] 


My  constant  whisperings  would  tell 

A  story  sweet  to  hear. 
I  'd  make  the  message  from  the  sea 

Love's  tidings  on  the  shore, 
And  I  would  woo  with  words  so  true 

That  you  could  ask  no  more. 

So  if  some  silvern  nautilus 

Lay  close  beside  your  cheek, 
And  you  should  hear  a  language  dear 

Unto  the  heart  I  seek, 
You  '11  know  within  the  simple  shell 

That  murmurs  o'er  and  o'er 
I  send  to  you  a  love  more  true 

Than  e'er  was  breathed  before. 


VI 
FROM   A   HYPERBOLIST 

Take  all  the  love  that  e'er  was  told 
Since  first  the  world  began, 
[57] 


Increase  it  twenty  thousand-fold 

(If  mathematics  can), 
Add  all  the  love  the  world  shall  see 

Till  Gabriel's  final  call, 
And  when  compared  with  mine  't  will  be 

Infinitesimal. 


[58] 


WERE   ALL   THE   WORLD    LIKE   YOU 


w, 


ERE  all  the  world  like  you,  my  dear, 
Were  all  the  world  like  you, 

Oh,  there  'd  be  darts  in  all  our  hearts 
From  sunset  to  the  dew. 

For  life  would  be  Love's  jubilee 
Where  all  were  two  and  two, 

And  lovers'  rhyme  the  only  crime, 

Were  all  the  world  like  you,  my  dear, 
Were  all  the  world  like  you. 

Were  all  the  world  like  you,  my  dear, 
Were  all  the  world  like  you, 

There  'd  be  no  pain  nor  clouds  nor  rain, 
No  kisses  overdue ; 

But  sweetest  sighs  and  pleading  eyes, 
Where  Cupid's  arrow  flew, 

And  lovers'  rhyme  the  only  crime, 

Were  all  the  world  like  you,  my  dear, 
Were  all  the  world  like  you. 
[59] 


HERE   AND   THERE 


OWEET  Phyllis  went  a-rambling  here  and  there, 

Here  and  there. 

Her  eyes  were  blue  and  golden  was  her  hair. 
She  said,  "  Oh,  life  is  strange ; 
I  'm  sure  I  need  a  change ; 
'T  is  sad  for  one  to  ramble  here  and  there, 
Here  and  there." 


Young  Strephon  went  a-rambling  here  and  there, 

Here  and  there. 

He  sighed,  "  It  needs  but  two  to  make  a  pair. 
If  I  should  meet  a  maid 
Not  in  the  least  afraid, 

How  happy  we  'd  go  rambling  here  and  there, 
Here  and  there." 

As  youth  and  maid  went  rambling  here  and  there, 
Here  and  there, 
[60] 


They  met,  and  loved  at  sight,  for  both  were  fair ; 

And  neither  youth  nor  maid 

Was  in  the  least  afraid, 

And  hand  in  hand  they  ramble  here  and  there, 
Here  and  there. 


[61] 


UNCLE   JOGALONG 

1VJLY  dear  old  Uncle  Jogalong 
Was  very  slow,  was  very  slow, 

And  said  he  thought  that  folks  were  wrong 
To  hurry  so,  to  hurry  so. 

When  he  walked  out  upon  the  street 
To  take  the  air,  to  take  the  air, 

It  seemed  almost  as  if  his  feet 

Were  fastened  there,  were  fastened  there. 

He  thought  that  traveling  by  rail 

Was  hurrying  and  scurrying, 
But  said  the  slow  and  creeping  snail 

Was  just  the  thing,  was  just  the  thing. 

He  thought  a  hasty  appetite 

An  awful  crime,  an  awful  crime, 

So  never  finished  breakfast,  quite, 
Till  dinner  time,  till  dinner  time. 

[621 


He  said  the  world  turned  round  so  fast 
He  could  not  stay,  he  could  not  stay, 

And  so  he  said  "  Good-by  "  at  last, 
And  went  away,  and  went  away. 


[63] 


THE    INDIFFERENT    MARINER 

JL  'M  a  tough  old  salt,  and  it 's  never  I  care 

A  penny  which  way  the  wind  is, 
Or  whether  I  sight  Cape  Finisterre, 

Or  make  a  port  at  the  Indies. 

Some  folks  steer  for  a  port  to  trade, 
And  some  steer  north  for  the  whaling ; 

Yet  never  I  care  a  damn  just  where 
I  sail,  so  long 's  I  'm  sailing. 

You  never  can  stop  the  wind  when  it  blows, 
And  you  can't  stop  the  rain  from  raining ; 

Then  why,  oh,  why,  go  a-piping  of  your  eye 
When  there 's  no  sort  o'  use  in  complaining  ? 

My  face  is  browned  and  my  lungs  are  sound, 
And  my  hands  they  are  big  and  calloused. 

I  Ve  a  little  brown  jug  I  sometimes  hug, 
And  a  little  bread  and  meat  for  ballast. 

[64] 


But  I  keep  no  log  of  my  daily  grog, 
For  what 's  the  use  o'  being  bothered  ? 

I  drink  a  little  more  when  the  wind 's  offshore, 
And  most  when  the  wind  's  from  the  no'th'ard. 

Of  course  with  a  chill  if  I  'm  took  quite  ill, 

And  my  legs  get  weak  and  toddly, 
At  the  jug  I  pull,  and  turn  in  full, 

And  sleep  the  sleep  of  the  godly. 

But  whether  I  do  or  whether  I  don't, 

Or  whether  the  jug 's  my  failing, 
It 's  never  I  care  a  damn  just  where 

I  sail,  so  long 's  I  'm  sailing. 


[65] 


ON   A    LIBRARY   WALL 


w, 


HEN  faltering  fingers  bid  me  cease  to  write, 
And,  laying  down  the  pen,  I  seek  the  Night, 
May  those,  to  whom  the  Daylight  still  is  sweet, 
With  loving  lips  my  name  ofttimes  repeat. 
And  should  Belshazzar's  spirit  hither  stray, 
And  linger  o'er  the  lines  I  write  to-day, 
May  he,  who  wept  for  Babylonia's  fall, 
Look  kindly  at  this  "  writing  on  the  wall  "  1 


[66] 


MRS.  MULLIGATAWNY 

1VJ.RS.  MULLIGATAWNY  said,  "I  'm  sure  it 's  going  to 

rain." 

Mr.  Mulligatawny  said,  "  To  me  it 's  very  plain." 
William  Mulligatawny  said,  "  It  must  rain,  anyhow." 
Mary  Mulligatawny  said,  "  I  feel  it  raining  now." 

And  yet  there  were  no  clouds  in  sight,  and  't  was  a 

pleasant  day, 

But  Mrs.  Mulligatawny  always  liked  to  have  her  way. 
With  Mrs.  Mulligatawny  the  family  all  agreed, 
For  all  the  Mulligatawny  s  feared  her  very  much  in 
deed, 

And  did,  whenever  they  were  bid, 
As  Mrs.  Mulligatawny  did, 
And  tried  to  think,  as  they  were  taught, 
As  Mrs.  Mulligatawny  thought. 

Mrs.  Mulligatawny  said,  "Now  two  and  two  are  three." 
Mr.  Mulligatawny  said,  "I  'm  sure  they  ought  to  be." 
William  Mulligatawny  said,  "Arithmetic  is  wrong." 


Mary  Mulligatawny  said,  "  It 's  been  so  all  along." 
Now  two  and  two  do  not  make  three,  and  three  they 

never  were ; 
But  Mrs.  Mulligatawny  said  'twas  near  enough  for 

her. 

With  Mrs.  Mulligatawny  the  family  all  agreed, 
For  all  the  Mulligatawnys  feared  her  very  much  in 
deed, 

And  did,  whenever  they  were  bid, 
As  Mrs.  Mulligatawny  did, 
And  tried  to  think,  as  they  were  taught, 
As  Mrs.  Mulligatawny  thought. 

Mrs.  Mulligatawny  fell  out  of  the  world  one  day. 
Mr.  Mulligatawny  said,  "  I  don't  know  what  to  say." 
William  Mulligatawny  said,  "  I  don't  know  what  to  do." 
Mary  Mulligatawny  said,  "  I  feel  the  same  as  you." 
Mrs.  Mulligatawny  left  the  family  sitting  there. 
They  could  n't  think,  they  could  n't  move,  because 

they  did  n't  dare  ; 

For  Mrs.  Mulligatawny  had  always  thought  for  them, 
And   all   the  Mulligatawnys    thought    the    same    as 
Mrs.  M, 

[68] 


And  did,  whenever  they  were  bid, 
As  Mrs.  Mulligatawny  did, 
And  tried  to  think,  as  they  were  taught, 
As  Mrs.  Mulligatawny  thought. 


[69] 


EUTHANASIA 

[To  E.  C.] 


o 


H,  drop  your  eyelids  down,  my  lady  ; 

Oh,  drop  your  eyelids  down. 
'T  were  well  to  keep  your  bright  eyes  shady 

For  pity  of  the  town ! 
But  should  there  any  glances  be, 
I  pray  you  give  them  all  to  me ; 
For  though  my  life  be  lost  thereby, 
It  were  the  sweetest  death  to  die ! 


[70] 


DAINTY  LITTLE    LOVE 


D 


AINTY  little  Love  came  tripping 

Down  the  hill, 

Smiling  as  he  thought  of  sipping 
Sweets  at  will. 
SHE  said,  "  No, 
Love  must  go." 

Dainty  little  Love  came  tripping 
Down  the  hill. 

Dainty  little  Love  went  sighing 

Up  the  hill, 

All  his  little  hopes  were  dying  — 
Love  was  ill. 
Vain  he  tried 
Tears  to  hide. 

Dainty  little  Love  went  sighing 
Up  the  hill. 


t7i] 


TO  M. 
C 

OWEET  visions  came  to  me  in  sleep, 
Ah  !  wondrous  fair  to  see  ; 

And  in  my  mind  I  strove  to  keep 
The  dream  to  tell  to  thee. 

But  morning  broke  with  golden  gleam, 
And  shone  upon  thy  face, 

And  life  was  lovelier  than  a  dream, 
And  dreams  had  lost  their  grace. 


[72] 


THE  SONG 

A  HEARD  an  old,  familiar  air 

Strummed  idly  by  a  careless  hand, 

Yet  in  the  melody  were  rare, 

Sweet  echoings  from  childhood  land. 

The  well-remembered  mother  touch, 
The  wise  denials  and  consents, 

The  trivial  sorrows  that  were  much, 

Small  pleasures  that  were  large  events ; 

The  fancies,  dreams,  strange  wonderings, 
The  daily  problems  unexplained, 

Momentous  as  the  cares  of  kings 

That  on  unhappy  thrones  have  reigned, 

Came  back  with  each  unstudied  tone  ; 

And  came  that  song  remembered  best, 
Which,  with  a  sweetness  all  its  own, 

Once  lulled  the  play-worn  child  to  rest. 
[73] 


And  there,  secure  as  Tarik's  height, 

He  slumbered,  shielded  from  alarms, 

Safe  from  the  mystery  of  night, 

Close  folded  in  the  mother's  arms. 

Then  Israel's  mighty  songs  of  old, 
And  all  the  modern  masters'  art, 

Were  less  than  simple  lays  that  told 
The  secret  of  the  mother's  heart. 

The  sweetest  melody  that  flows 

From  lips  that  win  the  world's  applause 
Charms  not  like  that  which  childhood  knows, 

Unfettered  by  the  curb  of  laws. 

For  though  we  rise  to  nobler  themes, 

To  grander  harmonies  attain, 
Their  lives  not  in  the  academes 

The  magic  of  the  simpler  strain. 

And  we  may  spurn  the  cruder  song, 
Or  name  it  anything  we  will, 
[74] 


Denounce  the  artifice  as  wrong, 

Yet  to  the  child  't  is  music  still. 

Thus,  list'ning  to  an  idle  air, 

Struck  lightly  by  a  careless  hand, 

I  heard,  amid  the  cadence  there, 

The  sweetest  song  of  childhood  land. 


[75] 


AT  TWILIGHT  TIME 


A 


.T  twilight  time  when  tolls  the  chime, 

And  saddest  notes  are  falling, 
A  lonely  bird  with  plaintive  word 

Across  the  dusk  is  calling. 
Vain  doth  it  wait  for  one  dear  mate, 

That  ne'er  shall  know  the  morrow ; 
Then  sinks  to  rest  with  drooping  crest 

In  one  long  dream  of  sorrow. 


Dearest,  when  night  is  here, 

To  thee  I  'm  calling, 
Sadly  as  tear  on  tear 

Is  slowly  falling, 
Oh,  fold  me  near,  more  near 

In  love  enthralling ! 
Here  on  thy  breast, 

While  life  shall  last, 

[76] 


With  thee  I  stay. 

Here  will  I  rest 
Till  night  is  past, 

And  comes  the  day ! 


[77] 


CELESTE 


o 


F  sweethearts  I  have  had  a  score, 
And  time  may  bring  as  many  more ; 

Tho'  I  remember  all  the  rest, 

Just  now  I  worship  dear  Celeste ; 

Hers  may  not  be  the  greatest  love, 
But  ah !  it  is  the  latest  love. 

For  little  Cupid  's  never  stupid, 

As  I  Ve  found  out ; 
And  love  is  truest  when  'tis  newest, 

Beyond  a  doubt,  beyond  a  doubt. 

Of  sweethearts  I  have  had  a  score, 
Celeste  says  I  deserve  no  more ; 

I  take  revenge  on  dear  Celeste, 
By  telling  her  I  love  her  best ; 

Hers  may  not  be  the  greatest  love, 
But  ah !  it  is  the  latest  love. 


For  little  Cupid 's  never  stupid, 

As  I  've  found  out ; 
And  love  is  truest  when  't  is  newest, 

Beyond  a  doubt,  beyond  a  doubt. 


[79] 


THISTLE-DOWN 


T, 


HE  thistle-down  floats  on  the  air,  the  air, 

% 
Whenever  the  soft  wind  blows, 

And  the  wind  can  tell  just  where,  just  where 

The  feathery  thistle-down  goes. 
And  it  tells  the  bird  in  a  single  word, 

Who  whispers  it  low  to  the  bee ; 
And  they  try  to  keep  the  mystery  deep, 

And  none  of  them  tell  it  to  me. 
But  I  know  well,  though  they  never  will  tell, 
Where  the  thistle-down  goes  when  it  says  "  Farewell," 
It  floats  and  floats  away  on  the  air, 
And  goes  where  the  wind  goes  —  everywhere ! 


[80] 


SLUMBER   SONG 


'ENTLY  fall  the  shadows  gray, 
Daylight  softly  veiling ; 
Now  to  Dreamland  we  '11  away, 
Sailing,  sailing,  sailing. 

Little  eyes  were  made  for  sleeping, 

Little  heads  were  made  for  rest, 
Golden  locks  were  made  for  keeping 

Close  to  mother's  breast ; 
Little  hands  were  made  for  folding, 

Little  lips  should  never  sigh; 
What  dear  mother's  arms  are  holding, 

Love  alone  can  buy. 

Gently  fall  the  shadows  gray, 

Daylight  softly  veiling ; 
Now  to  Dreamland  we  '11  away, 

Sailing,  sailing,  sailing. 

[81] 


THOU   ART   TO   ME 


T, 


HOU  art  to  me 
As  are  soft  breezes  to  a  summer  sea ; 

As  stars  unto  the  night ; 

Or  when  the  day  is  born, 

As  sunrise  to  the  morn ; 
As  peace  unto  the  fading  of  the  light. 

Thou  art  to  me 
As  one  sweet  flower  upon  a  barren  lea ; 

As  rest  to  toiling  hands  ; 
As  one  clear  spring  amid  the  desert  sands ; 

As  smiles  to  maidens'  lips ; 
As  hope  to  friends  that  wait  for  absent  ships ; 

As  happiness  to  youth  ; 

As  purity  to  truth ; 

As  sweetest  dreams  to  sleep ; 
As  balm  to  wounded  hearts  that  weep. 
All,  all  that  I  would  have  thee  be 
Thou  art  to  me. 

[82] 


LOVE 

[TRIO] 


OH, 


love  hits  all  humanity,  humanity,  my  dear ; 
But  after  all  it 's  vanity,  a  vanity,  I  fear ; 
And  sometimes  't  is  insanity,  insanity,  so  queer ; 

Humanity,  yes,  a  vanity,  yes,  insanity  so  queer. 
And  love  is  often  curious,  so  curious  to  see, 
And  oftentimes  is  spurious,  so  spurious,  ah,  me ! 
And  surely  'tis  injurious,  injurious  when  free, 

So  curious,  yes,  and  spurious,  yes,  injurious  when  free. 

Oh,  love  brings  much  anxiety,  anxiety  and  grief, 
But  seasoned  with  propriety,  propriety,  relief, 
It 's  mixed  with  joy  and  piety,  but  piety  is  brief ; 

Anxiety,  yes,  propriety,  yes,  but  piety  is  brief. 
Oh,  young  love 's  all  timidity,  timidity,  I  'm  told, 
Gains  courage  with  rapidity,  rapidity,  so  bold, 
With  traces  of  acidity,  acidity,  when  old  ; 

Timidity,  yes,  rapidity,  yes,  acidity,  when  old. 

[83] 


THE   STRANGER-MAN 

l\l  ow   what   is   that,  my  daughter   dear,  upon   thy 

cheek  so  fair  ? " 
"  'T  is  but  a  kiss,  my  mother  dear  —  kind  fortune  sent 

it  there. 

It  was  a  courteous  stranger-man  that  gave  it  unto  me, 
And  it  is  passing  red  because  it  was  the  last  of  three." 

"  A  kiss  indeed  !  my  daughter  dear ;  I  marvel  in  sur 
prise  ! 

Such  conduct  with  a  stranger-man  I  fear  me  was  not 
wise." 

"  Methought  the  same,  my  mother  dear,  and  so  at  three 
forbore, 

Although  the  courteous  stranger-man  vowed  he  had 
many  more." 

"  Now  prithee,  daughter,  quickly  go,  and  bring  the  stran 
ger  here, 
And  bid  him  hie  and  bid  him  fly  to  me,  my  daughter  dear  ; 

[84] 


For  times  be  very,  very  hard,  and  blessings   eke  so 

rare, 
I  fain  would  meet  a  stranger-man  that  hath  a  kiss  to 

spare." 


[85] 


THE    HONEYSUCKLE   VINE 


T 


WAS  a  tender  little  honeysuckle  vine 
That  smiled  and  danced  in  the  warm  sunshine, 
And  spied  a  maid  as  fair  as  all  maids  be, 
Who  said,  "Little  honeysuckle,  come  up  to  me." 
So  it  climbed  and  climbed  in  the  sun  and  the  shade, 
And  all  summer  long  at  her  window  stayed  ; 
For  that  is  the  way  that  honeysuckles  go, 
And  that  is  the  way  that  true  loves  grow. 

Then  the  loving  little  honeysuckle  vine 
Kissed  the  little  maid  in  the  warm  sunshine ; 
But  the  winter  came  with  an  angry  frown, 
And  the  false  little  maid  shut  the  window  down ; 
And  the  sorrowing  vine  on  the  wintry  side 
Mourned  and  mourned  for  the  love  that  died, 
And  faded  away  in  the  wind  and  snow,  — 
And  that  is  the  way  that  some  loves  go. 


[86] 


SAINT    BOTOLPH 


BOTOLPH  flourished  in  the  olden  time, 
In  the  days  when  the  saints  were  in  their  prime. 
Oh,  his  feet  were  bare  and  bruised  and  cold, 
But  his  heart  was  warm  and  as  pure  as  gold. 
And  the  kind  old  saint  with  his  gown  and  his  hood 
Was  loved  by  the  sinners  and  loved  by  the  good, 
For  he  made  the  sinners  as  pure  as  the  snow, 
And  the  good  men  needed  him  to  keep  them  so. 

CHORUS 

Then  drink,  brave  gentlemen,  drink  with  me 
To  the  Lincolnshire  saint  by  the  old  North  Sea. 
A  glass  and  a  toast  and  a  song  and  a  rhyme 
To  the  barefooted  saint  of  the  olden  time. 

He  loved  a  friend  and  a  flagon  of  wine, 
When  the  friend  was  true  and  the  bottle  was  fine. 
He  would  raise  his  glass  with  a  knowing  wink, 
And  this  was  the  toast  he  would  always  drink  :  — 

[87] 


"  Oh,  here  's  to  the  good  and  the  bad  men  too, 
For  without  them  saints  would  have  nothing  to  do. 
Oh,  I  love  them  both  and  I  love  them  well, 
But  which  I  love  better,  I  never  can  tell." 

CHORUS 

Then  drink,  brave  gentlemen,  drink  with  me 
To  the  Lincolnshire  saint  by  the  old  North  Sea. 
A  glass  and  a  toast  and  a  song  and  a  rhyme 
To  the  barefooted  saint  of  the  olden  time. 

As  he  journeyed  along  on  the  king's  highway 
He  gave  all  the  boys  and  the  girls  "  Good-day," 
And  never  a  child  saw  the  hood  and  gown 
But  ran  to  the  father  of  Botolph's  Town. 
He  'd  a  word  for  the  wicked,  and  he  called  them  kin, 
And  he  said,  "  I  am  certain  that  there  must  be  sin 
While  a  few  get  the  loaves  and  many  get  the  crumbs, 
And  some  are  born  fingers  and  some  born  thumbs." 

CHORUS 

Then  drink,  brave  gentlemen,  drink  with  me 
To  the  Lincolnshire  saint  by  the  old  North  Sea. 
[88] 


A  glass  and  a  toast  and  a  song  and  a  rhyme 
To  the  barefooted  saint  of  the  olden  time. 

But  the  saint  grew  old,  and  sorry  the  day 
When  his  life  went  out  with  the  tide  in  the  bay; 
But  he  left  a  name  and  he  left  a  creed 
Of  the  cheerful  life  and  the  kindly  deed. 
Then  remember  the  man  of  the  days  of  old 
Whose  heart  was  warm  and  as  pure  as  gold, 
And  remember  the  tears  and  the  prayers  he  gave 
For  any  poor  devil  with  a  soul  to  save. 

CHORUS 

Then  drink,  brave  gentlemen,  drink  with  me 
To  the  Lincolnshire  saint  by  the  old  North  Sea. 
A  glass  and  a  toast  and  a  song  and  a  rhyme 
To  the  barefooted  saint  of  the  olden  time. 


[89] 


THE   GURGLING   IMPS 


T, 


HE  Gurgling  Imps  of  Mummery  Mum 
Lived  in  the  Land  of  the  Crimson  Plum, 
And  a  language  very  strange  had  they, 
'T  was  merely  a  chattering  ricochet. 

The  Gurgling  Imps  of  Mummery  Mum 
Caught  hummingbirds  for  the  sake  of  the  hum, 
Their  cheeks  were  flushed  with  a  sable  tinge, 
Their  eyelids  hung  on  a  silver  hinge. 

The  Gurgling  Imps  of  Mummery  Mum 
Called  each  other  "  My  charming  chum," 
And  floated  in  tears  of  joy  to  see 
Their  relatives  hung  in  a  cranberry  tree. 

The  Gurgling  Imps  of  Mummery  Mum 
Stole  the  whole  of  a  half  of  a  crumb, 
And  a  wind  arose  and  blew  the  Imps 
Way  off  to  the  Land  of  the  Lazy  Limps. 

[90] 


THE   WORM   WILL  TURN 


'M  a  gentle,  meek,  and  patient  human  worm ; 
Unattractive, 
Rather  active, 

With  a  sense  of  right,  original  but  firm. 
I  was  taught  to  be  forgiving, 
For  my  enemies  to  pray  ; 
But  what 's  the  use  of  living 

If  you  never  can  repay 

All  the  little  animosities  that  in  your  bosom  burn  — 
Oh,  it 's  pleasant  to  remember  that  "  the  worm  will  turn." 

I  'm  so  gentle  and  so  patient  and  so  meek, 
Unpretending, 
Unoffending. 

But  if,  perchance,  you  smite  me  on  the  cheek, 
I  will  never  turn  the  other, 

As  I  was  taught  to  do 
By  a  puritanic  mother, 
Whose  theology  was  blue. 

[91] 


Your  experience  will  widen  when  explicitly  you  learn 
How  a  modest,  mild,  submissive  little  worm  will  turn. 

I  'm  so  subtle  and  so  crafty  and  so  sly. 
I  am  humble, 
But  I  "  tumble  " 
To  the  slightest  oscillation  of  the  eye. 

When  others  think  they  're  winning 

A  fabulous  amount, 
Then  I  do  a  little  sinning 

On  my  personal  account, 

And  in  my  quiet,  simple  way  a  modest  stipend  earn 
As  they  slowly  grasp  the  bitter  fact  that  worms  will 
turn. 

Oh,  human  worms  are  curious  little  things  ; 
Inoffensive, 
Rather  pensive 

Till  it  comes  to  using  little  human  stings. 
Oh,  then  avoid  intrusion 

If  you  would  be  discreet, 
And  cultivate  seclusion 
In  an  underground  retreat. 
[92] 


And   whenever  you   are   tempted  the  lowly  worm  to 

spurn, 
Just  bear   in   mind   that   little   line,  "  The  worm  will 

turn." 


[93] 


THE   BOSTON   CATS 

LITTLE  Cat  played  on  a  silver  flute, 
And  a  Big  Cat  sat  and  listened ; 
The  Little  Cat's  strains  gave  the  Big  Cat  pains, 
And  a  tear  on  his  eyelid  glistened. 

Then  the  Big  Cat  said,  "  Oh,  rest  awhile ;  " 

But  the  Little  Cat  said,  "  No,  no ; 
For  I  get  pay  for  the  tunes  I  play  ; " 

And  the  Big  Cat  answered,  "  Oh ! 

"  If  you  get  pay  for  the  tunes  you  play, 
I  'm  afraid  you  '11  play  till  you  drop  ; 
You  '11  spoil  your  health  in  the  race  for  wealth, 
So  I  '11  give  you  more  to  stop." 

Said  the  Little  Cat,  «  Hush  !  you  make  me  blush ; 

Your  offer  is  unusually  kind  ; 
Though  it 's  very,  very  hard  to  leave  the  back  yard, 

I  '11  accept  if  you  don't  mind." 
[94] 


So  the  Big  Cat  gave  him  a  thousand  pounds 

And  a  silver  brush  and  a  comb, 
And  a  country  seat  on  Beacon  Street, 

Right  under  the  State  House  dome. 

And  the  Little  Cat  sits  with  other  little  kits, 
And  watches  the  bright  sun  rise  ; 

And  the  voice  of  the  flute  is  long  since  mute, 
And  the  Big  Cat  dries  his  eyes. 


[95] 


THE   JONQUIL   MAID 

A 
JT\>  LITTLE  Maid  sat  in  a  Jonquil  Tree, 

Singing  alone, 
In  a  low  love-tone, 

And  the  wind  swept  by  with  a  wistful  moan ; 
For  he  longed  to  stay 
With  the  Maid  all  day ; 
But  he  knew 
As  he  blew 
It  was  true 
That  the  dew 
Would  never,  never  dry 
If  the  wind  should  die ; 

So  he  hurried  away  where  the  rosebuds  grew. 
And  while  to  the  Land  of  the  Rose  went  he, 
Singing  alone, 
In  a  low  love-tone, 
A  Little  Maid  sat  in  a  Jonquil  Tree. 


[96] 


The  Little  Maid's  eyes  had  a  rainbow  hue, 
And.  her  sunset  hair 
Was  woven  with  care 

In  a  knot  that  was  fit  for  a  Psyche  to  wear ; 
And  she  pressed  her  lips 
With  her  finger  tips, 
Threw  a  sly 
Kiss  to  try 
If  he  'd  sigh 
In  reply, 

And  said  with  a  laugh, 
"  Oh,  it 's  not  one  half 

As  sweet  as  I  give  when  there's  Some  One  nigh." 
And  while  to  the  Rosebud  Land  went  he, 
Singing  alone, 
In  a  low  love-tone, 
A  Little  Maid  sat  in  a  Jonquil  Tree. 


The  wind  swept  back  to  the  Jonquil  Tree 

At  the  close  of  day, 

In  the  twilight  gray  ; 

But  the  sweet  Little  Maid  had  stolen  away ; 
[97] 


And  whither  she 's  flown 
Will  never  be  known 
Till  the  Rose 
As  it  blows 
Shall  disclose 
All  it  knows 
Of  the  Maid  so  fair 
With  the  sunset  hair. 

And  the  sad  wind  comes  and  sighs  and  goes, 
And  dreams  of  the  day  when  he  blew  so  free, 
When  singing  alone, 
In  a  low  love-tone, 
A  Little  Maid  sat  in  a  Jonquil  Tree. 


[98] 


THE   ROLLICKING  MASTODON 


ROLLICKING  MASTODON  lived  in  Spain, 
In  the  trunk  of  a  Tranquil  Tree. 
His  face  was  plain,  but  his  jocular  vein 

Was  a  burst  of  the  wildest  glee. 
His  voice  was  strong  and  his  laugh  so  long 

That  people  came  many  a  mile, 
And  offered  to  pay  a  guinea  a  day 

For  the  fractional  part  of  a  smile. 

The  Rollicking  Mastodon's  laugh  was  wide  — 
Indeed,  't  was  a  matter  of  family  pride  ; 
And  oh  !  so  proud  of  his  jocular  vein 
Was  the  Rollicking  Mastodon  over  in  Spain. 

The  Rollicking  Mastodon  said  one  day, 

"  I  feel  that  I  need  some  air, 
For  a  little  ozone  's  a  tonic  for  bones, 

As  well  as  a  gloss  for  the  hair." 
So  he  skipped  along  and  warbled  a  song 

In  his  own  triumphulant  way. 

[99] 


His  smile  was  bright  and  his  skip  was  light 
As  he  chirruped  his  roundelay. 

The  Rollicking  Mastodon  tripped  along, 
And  sang  what  Mastodons  call  a  song ; 
But  every  note  of  it  seemed  to  pain 
The  Rollicking  Mastodon  over  in  Spain. 

A  Little  Peetookle  came  over  the  hill, 

Dressed  up  in  a  bollitant  coat ; 
And  he  said,  "  You  need  some  harroway  seed, 

And  a  little  advice  for  your  throat." 
The  Mastodon  smiled  and  said,  "  My  child, 

There  's  a  chance  for  your  taste  to  grow. 
If  you  polish  your  mind,  you  '11  certainly  find 
How  little,  how  little  you  know." 

The  Little  Peetookle,  his  teeth  he  ground 
At  the  Mastodon's  singular  sense  of  sound ; 
For  he  felt  it  a  sort  of  musical  stain 
On  the  Rollicking  Mastodon  over  in  Spain. 

"  Alas  !  and  alas  !  has  it  come  to  this  pass  ?  " 
Said  the  Little  Peetookle  :  "  Dear  me  ! 
[100] 


It  certainly  seems  your  horrible  screams 

Intended  for  music  must  be." 
The  Mastodon  stopped ;  his  ditty  he  dropped, 

And  murmured,  "  Good-morning,  my  dear  ! 
I  never  will  sing  to  a  sensitive  thing 

That  shatters  a  song  with  a  sneer !  " 

The  Rollicking  Mastodon  bade  him  "  adieu. 
Of  course,  't  was  a  sensible  thing  to  do ; 
For  Little  Peetookle  is  spared  the  strain 
Of  the  Rollicking  Mastodon  over  in  Spain. 


[101] 


THE    FIVE   SENSES 


OH, 


why  do  men  their  glasses  clink 
When  good  old  honest  wine  they  drink  ? 

Wine  is  so  excellent  a  thing 
To  lowest  subject,  or  to  highest  king, 
That  every  sense  alike  should  share 
The  pleasure  that  can  banish  care. 
Thus  may  each  merry  eye  behold 
The  sparkle  of  the  red  or  gold. 
Our  lips  may  feel  the  goblet's  edge 
And  taste  the  loving  cup  we  pledge. 
While  from  each  foaming  glass  escape 
The  precious  perfumes  of  the  grape. 
But  ah,  we  hear  it  not,  and  so 
We  give  the  touch  that  all  men  know. 
And  thus  do  all  the  senses  share 
The  pleasure  that  can  banish  care. 

And  that  is  why  the  glasses  clink 
When  good  old  honest  wine  we  drink. 

[102] 


ECONOMY 

[A  VALENTINE] 


i 


SEND, 

0  sweetest  friend, 
A  kiss ; 

Such  as  fair  ladies  gave 

Of  old,  when  knights  were  brave, 

And  smiles  were  won 

Through  foes  undone. 

And  this  will  be 

For  you  to  give  again  to  me  ; 

And  then,  its  present  errand  o'er, 

1  '11  give  it  unto  you  once  more, 
Ere  briefest  time  elapse, 
With  interest,  perhaps. 

Its  mission  spent, 
Again  to  me  it  may  be  lent. 
And  thus,  day  after  day, 
As  we  a  simple  law  obey, 


Forever,  to  and  fro, 

The  selfsame  kiss  will  go ; 

A  busy  shuttle  that  shall  weave 

A  web  of  love,  to  soften  and  relieve 

Our  daily  care. 

And  so, 

As  thus  we  share, 

With  lip  to  lip, 

Our  frugal  partnership, 

One  kiss  will  always  do 

For  two. 

And,  oh,  how  easy  it  will  be 

To  practice  this  economy  ! 


[104] 


IDYLETTES   OF   THE    QUEEN 


I.— SHE 


i 


FAIN  would  write  on  pleasant  themes ; 
So  let  me  prate 
Awhile  of  Kate ; 
And  if  my  rhyming  effort  seems 
Uncouth  or  rough, 
At  any  rate, 
She  's  Kate, 
And  that 's  enough. 

II.  — HER  EYES 

Her  eyes  are  bright  — 

I  cannot  say  "  like  stars  at  night," 

Nor  can  I  say 
"  Like  the  Orb  of  Day," 
Because  such  phrases  are  archaic. 
And  if  I  swear 

[105] 


That  they  compare 
With  diamonds  rare, 
That 's  too  prosaic. 

I  Ve  hunted  my  thesaurus  through, 
"  The  Century  "  and  "  Webster,"  too, 
But  all  in  vain ; 
'T  is  therefore  plain 

That  they  who  made  these  books  so  wise 
Had  never  seen  her  eyes  ! 


III.— HER  GOWN 

When  Kate  puts  on  her  Sunday  gown 
And  goes  to  church  all  in  her  best, 
The  watchful  gargoyles  looking  down 
Relax  their  most  forbidding  frown, 
And  smile  with  kindly  interest. 

Discerning  gargoyles  !  could  I  be 

One  of  your  number  looking  down, 
With  you  I  surely  would  agree 
[106] 


And  share  your  amiability 

At  sight  of  Kate  and  Sunday  gown. 


IV.  — HER  KNOWLEDGE 

How  much  she  knows  no  one  can  tell ; 

But  she  can  read  and  write  and  spell, 
Divide  and  multiply  and  add, 
And  name  the  apples  Thomas  had 

When  John  enticed  him  five  to  sell. 

For  "  jelly  "  she  does  not  say  "  jell," 
Nor  horrify  us  with  "  umbrell," 

For  all  of  which  we  're  very  glad  — 
How  much  she  knows  ! 

She  knows  the  oyster  by  his  shell, 
Detects  the  newsboy  by  his  yell, 
Enumerates  the  bones  in  shad, 
And  thinks  my  poetry  is  bad. 
Well !  well !  well !  well !  well !  well !  well !  well 
How  much  she  knows  ! 
[107] 


V.  — HER  SIGH 

When  she  utters  a  sigh 

'T  is  a  breath  from  the  roses, 

And  a-hovering  nigh, 

When  she  utters  a  sigh, 

The  bees  wonder  why 
No  garden  discloses. 

When  she  utters  a  sigh 

'T  is  a  breath  from  the  roses. 

VI.  — HER  RING 

Her  ring  goes  round  her  finger. 

Oh,  foolish  thing ! 

Were  I  a  ring, 
I  'd  not  "  go  round  "  —  I  'd  linger ! 

VII.  — HER  FAULTS 

Of  faults  she  has  but  one, 
And  that  is,  she  has  none. 
[108] 


VIII.  — HER  VOICE 

Sweet  and  soothing,  rhythmic,  tuneful, 
Dulcet,  mellow,  ^^bassoonful, 

Zither,  'cello,  lute,  guitar, 

And  there  you  are  ! 

IX.  — HER  LOVE 

Do  you  love  me  ? 
R.  S.  V.  P. 


[109] 


TO    M.   E. 

V  V  E  keep  in  step  as  years  roll  by ; 

You  march  behind  and  I  before :  — 
The  path  is  new  to  you  ;  but  I 

Have  passed  the  ground  you  're  walking  o'er. 
Yet  I  march  on  with  measured  tread, 

And  looking  back,  I  smile  and  greet  you:  — 
I  fear  the  order,  "  Halt !  "    Instead, 

Would  I  might  countermarch  and  meet  you. 


[no] 


BON  VOYAGE 

[To  O.  R.] 

VXUT  from  the  Land  of  the  Future,  into  the  Land  of 

the  Past 
A  comrade  sails  to  the  East,  the  sport  of  the  wave  and 

the  blast. 
Oh,  billow  and  breeze,  be  kind,  and  temper  your  strength 

to  your  guest, 
Kind  for  the  sake  of  the  friend,  —  for  the  sake  of  the 

hands  he  pressed. 

Oh,  tenderest  billow  and  breeze,  welcome  him  even  as 
we 

Would  welcome  if  you  were  the  friend  and  we  were  the 
wind  and  the  sea ! 

Welcome,  protect  him,  and  waft  him  westward  and  home 
ward  at  last 

Into  the  Land  of  the  Future,  out  from  the  Land  of  the 
Past ! 

[in] 


THE    BOOK   OF    LIFE 

VV  HOSO  his  book  of  life  doth  con 
From  title-leaf  to  colophon 
May  read,  if  he  but  wrongly  look, 
Some  sorry  pages  in  his  book. 

But  if  he  read  aright  each  line, 
Interpreting  the  scheme  divine, 
'T  will  be  most  fair  to  look  upon 
From  title-leaf  to  colophon. 


[112] 


($be  fttoertfbe 

Electrotyped  and  printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &>  Co. 
Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.S.  A. 


THIS 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL   BE   ASSESSED    FOR   FAILURE  TO   RETURN 
™S    BOOK   ON    THE   DATE   DUE.    THE   PENALTY 

will  INCREASE  TO  so  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 

DAY  AND  TO  fl.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


29  1936 


LD  21-100m-8,'34 


Macy,  A 
Poems 


334250    953 

M177 


• 


334250 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


